After the Vow
by Gugelhupf
Summary: Because I think Sherlock went through quite a lot without anyone caring. What happens if Sherlock loses all hope and turns to drugs for solace? Will anyone care? AU from The Sign of Three spoilers for HLV -whump abounds-
1. Chapter 1

Okay, people. Such a long time after The Sign of Three, I am still having trouble to get over how LONELY poor Sherlock seemed. So, let's pretend Sherlock deemed Magnussen not all that interesting.

Sherlock felt so utterly broken. He took a look at the mirror in his sleeping room in 221b Bakerstreet and scoffed.

What had happened to the cold, unfeeling genius he used to be?

John.

And two years of hell.

He had been changed for good but it was okay because John was there to catch him and make it all okay. Except he wasn't. Sherlock slowly stripped from the suit he had worn to his best friend's wedding. It wasn't like he was jealous. Not at all. He was glad that John had found someone to finally make him truly happy. Even if it meant that he would not survive his.

Making a decision, Sherlock put on some of the most causal clothes he owned. He had been putting those aside because he was planning to go undercover. It had to do with the case about Magnussen. But tonight's bout of hopelessness and meaninglessness had hit him like a brick. When he was going to the drug den tonight, it wasn't to be undercover.

Two months later, Sherlock had managed to make a full relapse. He hardly had any contact with the Watsons. They invited him for dinner sometimes and John kept trying to call him or get him to meet. He avoided them, though.

Two weeks after that fateful night in which John and Mary got married and Sherlock lost all hope, Sherlock did go to have dinner with them. They had just returned from their honeymoon, tan and relaxed and there was Sherlock who had spent his two weeks with cocaine and flashbacks from his torture in Serbia. And in China. And Lithuania. And Florida.

And the times he was there when someone was killed. Which he, the great Sherlock Holmes, had not been able to prevent. He thought of that one miserable night in Russia which he spent trapped in a cellar because he had been careless in his investigations and accidentally locked himself in. There he had been sitting, almost positive that he would not live to see the next morning where he might finally be discovered by someone. It had been terrible, alone in the dark, starving as his last meal had been a few days previously, and alone with his thoughts.

The night never seemed to end. Sherlock realised over dinner with the newlyweds that he was in that exact same position now: A neverending night in the dark, everything cold and empty. Only this time, it wasn't food he was deprived of. It was John.

He also realised that this time, it was more cruel. Because sitting there with them at a table was a constant reminder of what he had lost.

He put on his facade. It was absolutely impossible for him to go back to being the cold asshole he had once been. He tried though but sometimes, he felt emotions creep up on him and it felt as if he would explode if he was to remain silent or indifferent as he usually was. He masked it by being cheery or enthusiastic. They all wondered about it but it was better than everyone seeing what he had truly become: broken.

Of course, it also enabled him to really feel joyous and enthusiastic. His affection for John grew and he actually did get to enjoy some moments. Only, without John there was no joy. He hardly had anyone else. Sure, Molly was sweet and Lestrade was almost like a father to him. Mrs Hudson was the best landlady one could imagine and Mycroft sometimes wasn't an asshole. Nevertheless, he had never felt this isolated and alone.

So that evening, when he had taken only a deliberately small dose of cocaine, enough to not go into withdrawal and not enough to be truly high, he entered their home looking forward to the evening. That quickly changed at how _perfect_ they were. Funny, affectionate and strong Mary gave John all the things Sherlock had never been able to. His best friend- no. Former best friend finally had the recognition he deserved and Sherlock felt like the worst human being in the world for not having been the person that appreciated John like Mary did. Obviously, he _had_ been appreciating John. Only not out loud.

He did not go to Baker Street that night. Instead, he opted to stay at the drug den.

John and Mary lay in their bed and talked about the evening.

"John, did he seem… off to you? I mean, he really is weird but even by his standards..."

"Yes, I know what you mean! I thought that was just me being silly. He was so cheery and… unlike himself. But he _has_ changed quite a lot since his-"

Mary cut him off.

"Fall. Remember, he did not die, John."

John breathed deeply. Yes, Sherlock was alive. Thinking about that day two years ago had caused him some distress but his beloved Mary was so very good at spotting and preventing it.

"We should keep a close eye on him anyway. Something tells me that the last two years haven't been easy on him, either," said Mary.

Long after she had fallen asleep, John was still awake, pondering about his friend. Was he alright?

John was frantic. Two months after his wedding, one and a half moths after he had last seen Sherlock and the man was nowhere to be found.

That's when their neighbour Mrs Whitney asked them to go and fetch her son. He really did not want to go. A part of him might have suspected that he would find Sherlock there, too. Within the last few weeks, he had often considered the possibilities and a relapse had always been the one nagging at the back of his mind, the one he did not want to accept.

So they went to the drug den, John sprained Billy's hand and he found Isaak.

When Sherlock heard John approach, he started shaking. He was just waking up, in dire need of a shot of cocaine and John was there. Shame and misery made him sob. He desperately tried to remain silent so that John would not hear him but it was so very hard because as much as he was so badly ashamed, he wanted to see _John_. He cursed himself, his weakness and his stupidity. He was sure that John would hate him. The thought made breathing even more difficult as forceful sobs forced their way out.

Meanwhile, John had checked over Isaak and began walking him out when he heard a sound that resembled choking.

John sighed. Just his luck that a junkie had to overdose on his watch. But, as he had only told the sprained whimsy at the door, he was a doctor.

"Isaak, go ahead. Mary's waiting in the car."

"Alright, doctor Watson," he said and stumbled off.

John had spotted the choking addict. He was lying on his side and seemed to get worse.

"Hey there, calm down," John said while carefully turning the man onto his back. "Deep breaths."

However, when he saw the face that stared up at him in extreme panic, he gasped.

"Sherlock! What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" John was so angry with Sherlock that he didn't register the other man's distress.

"How could you throw _everything_ away like that? You selfish-"

Sherlock flinched and his sobs became too powerful to stifle, so he just let them wrack his emaciated frame and curled himself into a ball.

John's anger was completely gone as he watched his friend break down like this. The sobbing turned soon enough into hyperventilation and frantic gasping accompanied by a wet cough.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Hey, listen to me. You need to calm down."

He elevated Sherlock's upper body which earned him a forceful flinch from Sherlock.

"Jesus, Sherlock. What happened to you? Why didn't you call me?" John's voice was soft now. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem present anymore. He was having a panic attack and John did everything he could to soothe Sherlock. The consulting detective looked like he'd pass out any minute.

When Sherlock had finally calmed down but still refused to look John in the eyes, his friend said:

"Sherlock, listen. Mary is waiting with the car outside. Do you think you could make it there? The alternative would be an ambulance."

The words hardly registered in Sherlock's muddled brain. But John sounded so… caring? His anger seemed to be gone and he was speaking softly. Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping he could listen to John's voice until he fell asleep.

"Sherlock! Stay with me. Do you need an ambulance?"

John seemed a bit aggravated. He was angry with Sherlock. Concentrate. John asked a question. What was it? An ambulance? No, then Mycroft'd be there and everyone would know what he did and they would all hate him even more. There would be foreign touches and accusing words from strangers and he would be so ashamed.

"Shhh, it's alright, Sherlock. We'll take the car, then."

Did he say that aloud? He didn't remember. And it didn't matter. John was there.

Sherlock had reacted to John's question. Finally. His answer though was a slurred chaos of words that did not all make sense. However, the main message of his rambling seemed to be "No ambulance, please." Although the other message seemed to be "I am scared". When John reassured him, he seemed startled as if h had not expected an answer. John wasn't entirely sure if the ambulance hadn't been the better choice.

 **TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, I'm back! Since The Abominable Bride changed a few things and simply cannot be ignored, this'll contain spoilers for it. You have been warned!**

Mary waited inside the car for John and Isaak. Whilst the latter came to her soon enough, Mary was growing impatient with John. Had something happened to him? Mary had half a mind to go and search for him, when the door opened anew and John stumbled out, supporting a semi conscious man who seemed to let himself get dragged along rather than walking himself.

At a second glance, she recognised Sherlock. As they came closer, Mary saw that he was ghostly pale, disorientated and obviously crying. Despite the danger he posed to her and her little lie, she was rather fond of the man and it hurt her to see him like this. John had told her about Sherlock's past and knowing that he had relapsed this badly was painful to watch.

She leapt out of the car to aid them. Once they had Sherlock buckled in (which was more difficult than one might think – he panicked at the sensation of being strapped onto a seat but could be persuaded to endure it), Mary asked:

"Where do we go now?"

"Home with us. We need to sort this out."

"Sorting this out" sounded a lot easier than it turned out to be. During their drive back home, John briefed Mary on everything that had happened. After Isaak was back in his home, they maneuvered a mostly unresponsive Sherlock into their own flat.

"John, don't you think he might have OD'd? Shouldn't he be going to a hospital?", Mary asked while preparing the guest bedroom for Sherlock.

John was just done taking Sherlock's pulse and blood pressure.

"On the contrary," he said, "He's going into withdrawal. We should let him rest for now. We'll figure out the next step when he's awake. And I think that'll be pretty soon."

So, they put Sherlock to bed and went to their living room. They had a lot of reading and talking and thinking to do.

Sherlock woke up with little recollection of how he got here. Wherever "here" was, anyway. After closer inspection though, it turned out to be the Watsons' spare bedroom. Now, the recent events came flooding back. His panick attack and his weakness. The way they had to put him to bed like a toddler. The memory made him cringe with shame. Restlessly, he made to stand just to have his feet fold underneath him immediately and fall back onto the bed.

The withdrawal was already quite advanced and his craving bordered unbearable. He struggled upright and stumbled to the door. Somehow, he made it to the front door without the Watsons noticing and stumbled outside. Sherlock eventually made it to his dealer to by the drugs he desperately needed.

"Morphin or Cocaine?", the man asked when he saw him approach.

In the end, he settled for both. After all, he was trying very hard to forget his humliating encounter earlier today. Sherlock then made his way to another drug den, just for the unlikely case that John might come looking for him. Not that he would. On top of being a burden, he had turned out to be an ungrateful one. John would surely be fed up with him and never talk to him ever again.

* * *

Meanwhile, John quietly approached Sherlock's room with some tea and fresh clothing. He wanted to suggest that Sherlock takes a shower and then joins them in the living room for a medical check up and the inevitable talk. Although he was baffled that his friend hadn't woken up due to his sypmtoms of withdrawal. Sherlock was probably just exhausted from his distressing day so far.

John knocked without recieving an answer.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Still no answer.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in," John warned him before doing just that. When he entered though, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Mary!", John shouted.

"Yeah, coming."

Mary entered the room and stood frozen to the spot.

"Oh, shit."

John left the room ind started searching for Sherlock in every room. Mary helped, too despite knowing exactly that they would not find him there. Wen their efforts were fruitless, John became frantic.

"Perhaps he's in the cellar or-"

Mary interrupted him:

"John, he isn't here anymore. You know that, too."

John sighed. Mary, of course, was right. In the end, they settled for calling Mycroft. John dearly hoped that the man already knew about Sherlock's difficult relationship with drugs because he'd feel miserable ratting Sherlock out to him. As it turned out, Mycroft was indeed aware and John heard a resingned sigh and the assurance of help before Mycroft hung up.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock threw his old list away and began composing a new one.

"Speedball", he wrote along with the correct dosages. It was more than he usually took but it felt quite necessary today. After all, today was the day he had lost John for good.

When he injected the solution, he felt the farmiliar rush of euphoria and it helped him forget everything. John, Mary, even Mycroft. None of it mattered. Contently, he lied down and let the high wash over him. Before long, though, his chest suddenly felt constricted and his pulse raced insanely. He felt restless yet without the energie to move. Thinking was difficult but one unsettling thought forced its way into Sherlocks head.

Am I overdosing?

Sherlock decided to concentrate on breathing instead.

* * *

"We went back to where we found him earlier but he isn't there," John said to Mycroft on the phone.

"I know one more location where he might be; we have eliminated all other possible options," the older Holmes answered.

"Where is it?", John asked.

"I am almost there. I will keep you posted," Mycroft said and hung up. He was aprroaching another drug house.

* * *

 **32 Mercer Street**

 **-MH**

"Mary, turn the car," John said, phone still in his hand.

"Where to?", she asked.

"Do you know a Mercer Street?"

"Yeah, it used to be Clermont Street. Lots of old factories."

Mary, who of course was the one behind the stirring wheel, turned the car and sped off in the opposite direction.

When they got to number 32, they ran to the entrance. Just before opening the heavy old door, John stopped abruptly.

"Mary, you are pregnant. Stay here."

She gave him the look and followed him inside.

After a few minutes of searching, they found Mycroft sitting in front of a miserable heap of Consulting Detective on the floor reading a list. He absently stroked his brothers curly hair while staring at the piece of paper forlornly.

"Shit," John hissed, "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He instantly crouched down next to him and started taking his pulse and checking his breathing.

"What's that?", Mary gestured toward the list.

"He always writes me lists of what he's taken," Mycroft answered and passed it on to John whose head had snapped up at that.

"This could kill him? Is he insane?", John exclaimed

"He does have a bit of a resistancy of course but I concede that this might be a dangerous dose even for him," Mycroft answered.

"This isn't the first time you've done this, is it?", Mary asked him.

Mycroft sighed.

"No, I am afraid it isn't."

"He needs a hospital," John decided.

"No, he needs a medical professional and medical equipment. Both of which we can provide. He only takes this kind of mixture and such reckless doses in times of severe distress. You wouldn't want him in a hospital then."

"But I have only treated very few overdoses and given that we actually make him go through withdrawal this time, I don't have any real experience in that one, either."

"Conveniently, I am a bit of an expert in treating both. I also know a person who will be of great help as well," Mycroft said.

So it was decided. They decided to help Sherlock through this is the Watsons' flat. On their way out, while carrying Sherlock, John heard Mycroft talking on his phone:

"Hello, Greg. I found another list."

"No you didn't!"

"I am afraid so. And it is rather serious."

"What has he done this time?"

"Speedball."

"I'm on my way."

"Come to John and Mary's flat."

* * *

 **Please leave a review, they keep lazy me writing;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay. First of all, I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK. Duh. Secondly, I passed my first proper exam today, so here's the chaper I wrote instead of getting smashed like everyone else.**

John was pacing the room. Next to him, back on the guest bed, was Sherlock. His faint, ragged breaths scared John but he had decided to prevent intubating the man since he seemed prone to panic attacks. When did that start? John realised that he hadn't been paying Sherlock a lot of attention lately. Of course, he was married to Mary, not Sherlock and he had trusted the idiot to take care of himself, but tha opinion needed some amendments, it seemed.

Sherlock moaned quietly. John immediately interruped his pacing and kneeled next to Sherlock's bedside.

"Sherlock, you with me?", he asked.

"Mmmh"

"Good. you have taken too much morphin. That may suppress your breathing reflex. Try to stay with me okay?"

"Mmmh..."

The second answer (if it can be actually called that) sounded a bit annoyed. Sherlock would have probably answered something along the lines of "I am not stupid, John!", had he been able to. Of course, in that case, John would have lost his temper and told the moron that him lying there was actually good proof that he was. Just thinking about that theoretical conversation made John's anger spike. He willed himself to be patient though. There was something wrong with Sherlock.

John heard the bell ring and Mary open the door. Her greetings were answered by Lestrade who sounded polite yet prfoundly concerned. Shortly after, the door was opened and Lestrade entered.

"John. Hello," he said a bit awkwardly.

"Greg, how are you doing?", John answered and walked up to greet his friend.

"How is he?", Lestrade asked, gesturing towards Sherlock.

"Physically? I'd say out of danger." John trailed off after that remark, fully aware that Sherlock was at least semi-conscious and really didn't need to hear what John had to say about his mental state.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?", Greg asked, assuming the kneeling poisition that John had done earlier.

This time, Sherlock managed to open bloodshot eyes with eerlily wide pupills. He blinked a few times, not being able to fucus on anything.

John joined Lestrade by Sherlock's side.

"Hey, mate. Good to see you awake. How are you feeling? Any pain?", he asked.

"Chest. Abdo- abdomen," he almost whispered.

Greg was about to say something when Sherlock's eyes suddenly widened. He feebly sat up and John, already prepared for what was about to happen, put a bucket in Sherlock's lap.

He expelled the meagre contents of his stomach which was mainly just bile. John wondered when the Consulting Detective had had his last proper meal.

Once Sherlock was resting again, Greg said:

"John, Mycroft and Mary asked me to fetch you."

"I'd rather not leave him here like this."

"They said it was important."

* * *

They all gathered in the Watsons' living room. Mycroft sighed and began to speak.

"I believe that there are some things you need to know to understand the current situation."

His serious glance was met by three inquisitive faces impatiently waiting for him to continue.

"When Sherlock was away dismantling Moriarty's organisation, it should not be imagined like the lift you two led before he went away. My brother faced many hardships and quite traumatic experiences. I myself rescued him from Serbia, where he was being tortured over the course of numerous days. I have also reason to believe that it wasn't the first time."

A shocked silence filled the room. John had been so angry at first and then they had never talked about it that he had never given it a thought wat Sherlock had been doing while away.

"What else happened to him?", Mary asked, her voice forcefully calm.

"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me and was actually quite good at staying under the radar."

"Come on! There has to be something you can give us, Mycroft," Lestrade impatiently prompted.

"He was trapped for a week in an old mine in China after having detected a drug ring there. It belonged to Moriarty and upon realising that they had been discovered, they tried to blow up the old mine where their headquarters were located. He survived but remained trapped in the mine. At another time, he found a labatory in which Moriarty's men experimented on human subjects. He only had one choice of shutting it down-"

"You mean, he didn't-", John exclaimed.

"Yes, he did become one of those subjects for at least three days."

"What did they do to him?", Lestrade asked.

"I don't know. He deleted all the data. We don't even know for sure what kind of experiments were conducted in there. Other than that, he was tortured numerous times. That is all I know."

"And it didn't occur to you to tell us that before he relapsed?", John angrily asked.

"I thought he could handle it-"

"HANDLE IT? The kid isn't a machine despite everything he does to pretend to be!", Lestrade exclaimed. "He was hearing voices first time he was back on our cases."

"He was what?" John and Mary exclaimed at once. "And you didn't think to tell anybody why, exactly?", John added.

"Well you were still pretty angry at him and,you know, I thought it was just Sherlock being a bit weird," Greg admitted sheepishly. John felt bad, too. Over his own anger, he hadn't even noticed that Sherlock had become this bad.

"Well, what now?", Mary asked but was interrupted by a scream of utter anguish. Sherlock.

* * *

He woke up to find himself inside the mines. He had never had any problems with dark, confined spaces before but he felt that his air was running out. Whimpering, he curled himself into a ball, awaiting his end. That's when e saw him. Lurking in the corner, smiling maliciously.

"It's raining it's pouring. Sherlock is boring. I'm laughing, I'm crying. Sherlock is dying."

Suddenly, Moriarty had one of those straightjackets in his hands. The kind they used in the labatory to restrain their victims. He kept coming closer. Sherlock screamed.

Almost immediately, there were voices, hushing him, telling him to calm down. They asked him what he saw. Why couldn't they see? He felt a warm hand stroking his head in small, circular motions. Precisely 1,5 circles in anti-clockwise direction each.

"Mycc..."

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm here. Focus on me. You are safe."

Then, there was another voice. Lestrade?

"Sherlock, I am here, too. I'll protect you from anything, I swear."

But couldn't they see? Moriarty would kill them all because of him. He was a monster. John hated him. He had to die so that no one else had to.

"Oh, Sherlock. Why don't we show they what they did to you in Luthuania. I bet they'll want a go, too."

"No please, just let me die!", he begged. He couldn't face the humiliation.

"But you deserve it. They'll want to see."

"I... deserve it," he whispered resigned, they cried.

Suddenly, he felt himself locked in a tight embrace. At first, it was frightening but Sherlock forced himself to remain still. Sfter some time, he was able to find comfort in the gesture.

"No, Sherlock. You don't deserve any of this."


End file.
